


Excalibur

by HopeCoppice



Series: Fangytales [1]
Category: Young Dracula
Genre: M/M, fairytale, legend, myth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-03
Updated: 2012-07-03
Packaged: 2017-11-09 02:31:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/450280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HopeCoppice/pseuds/HopeCoppice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every vampire knew the legend. The reason the vampire race had fallen apart; their one hope of rising again. Into this world, Vladimir Dracula was born. Slash, AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Excalibur

**Author's Note:**

> Cross-posted from ff.net.

The legend had been told to every young vampire, and each half-fang that was sired eventually came to hear the story of the great Vampire King of old, who had brought the vampire race into a time of glory and dominion over the breathers. It was said that the king wished for peace, and when he saw how the vampires under his leadership had enslaved and abused the breathers, his cold heart was saddened.

And so the king found a way to ensure that one day, he would be reborn as a vampire child, in a time when vampirekind was ready to be brought into harmony with the breathers. He spoke openly of his dreams, and his advisors did their best to dissuade him, but he was adamant.

His closest advisor, it was said, argued with him until the king became so enraged that he turned the unfortunate fellow to stone. Some whispered that the advisor had not argued at all – that he had attempted to seduce the king, presumably to blackmail him into changing his tune, and the king, disgusted, had made him a statue, a warning to all.

Whatever had happened, the fact remained that there was a statue of a kneeling vampire locked away in the depths of a crypt somewhere, and no vampire could approach without searing pain coursing through them. Even children who looked in that direction complained of headaches, and often nightmares caused by the figure’s wide, unseeing eyes.

The great king continued to speak out about his plan to unite vampires and humans in peace, and his court grew uneasy. As was customary in such circumstances, assassination plans were made and the king was soon nothing but dust blowing in the breeze. His court formed the original Vampire Council and later appointed the first Grand High Vampire, but from the moment the Vampire King was slain, his subjects’ fortunes began to suffer.

Over the centuries, vampires were forced into hiding as their food source rose up against them and slayers became more prolific and ever more efficient. It was said that the Vampire King could have kept them prosperous, by peaceful means or war, and that if he so chose, he could fix anything that ailed the vampires – he, and only he, would even be able to cure the stone vampire and make him flesh again. That king was dead, however, and the breathers continued to fight back against the predators that stalked them by night. By the end of the 20th century, the situation was dire.

It was into this world that Vladimir Dracula IV was born.

-

“I bet I can.”  
“No you can’t. No-one can.”  
Vlad rolled his eyes as Valentin and Costel continued to bicker.  
“I can! What do you think, Vlad?”  
He sighed. “Only one way to find out, but I don’t think you’ll be able to, Val. Ingrid snuck in here once, and you know what she’s like – but even she came out after about three seconds complaining of a migraine.”  
“See? Nobody can stare at the stone vampire for ten whole minutes.”  
“Shut up, Cos. Vlad, your sister’s pretty scary, but she’s still a girl. I can do it.”

After another half hour’s argument, Vlad could definitely see why vampire twins were so rare. It was easy to imagine the inevitable vampire family feuds being a thousand times worse if there were two equal heirs. Luckily for Clan Serban, Valentin and Costel had seven older brothers, two of whom now had sons of their own, and three older sisters. There was no danger of either of the twins inheriting any great title unless many centuries of misfortune hit their family.

The young Dracula heir sighed again and stepped into the castle, leaving them to it. Long abandoned, even an adult vampire wouldn’t need an invitation to get in here, but at nine years old, Vlad was safe either way. He wandered aimlessly through the castle, taking any turning he liked the look of, and found himself heading steadily downwards. He was glad he’d thought to bring a torch.

It wasn’t long before he was standing in the doorway of a dark dungeon, peering into the gloom. He could make out random pieces of statuary – a woman with no arms, in the greek style, an interesting depiction of a vampire descending on a breather, and, just visible in the darkness over the head of a curly-haired statue, a family crest of some sort.

Vlad spent some time trying to make out the details of the crest, hoping to work out who had once lived here, but his gaze kept sliding back down to the statue that was blocking his torchlight. The figure had been depicted kneeling on the floor, for some reason, and Vlad pondered it for several minutes. Why would anyone want a statue of them kneeling? Usually anyone who could afford to have themselves carved into stone would choose a more regal pose. Yet somehow, the kneeling figure radiated a kind of quiet dignity.

He felt compelled to have a closer look, and maybe get behind the statue to look at the big stone crest, but before he could take a step into the room his friends appeared behind him.  
“Vlad, there you- argh!” Costel reeled backwards, dragging Vlad with him, and Valentin was hot on their heels as they all ran back up the corridor.  
“Why were we running?” Vlad panted – he didn’t want to be a vampire, but he had to admit that not needing to breathe sounded pretty good as they emerged back into the overcast courtyard. The twins looked at him as if he was mad.  
“Vlad, you had your torch pointed straight at the thing! That was one heck of a migraine. How do you think it does that?” Sure enough, the Serbans were both rubbing frantically at their temples, faces scrunched up in pain. Comprehension dawned.  
“ _That_ was the statue?”

By the time they reached the main road between the two villages overlooked by the Dracula and Serban castles, Vlad had barely spoken, turning things over in his brain.  
“Can’t believe you didn’t even see it! I thought you’d been staring at it for all that time, for a moment, you would have completely fried your brain.”  
What were they talking about? Oh, yes, he had told them he’d barely been in front of them, having taken the ‘scenic route’ down to the crypt they’d been searching for all along.  
“And we thought _we_ were lost in the castle, somehow you didn’t even see us until we all ended up down there. But more importantly, I won the bet! You owe me a week’s pocket money, Val. Well, see you later, Vlad.”  
“Yeah, bye.” His mind was racing so fast that _he_ was beginning to develop a headache,  but he was glad he’d had the presence of mind to lie to the ten-year-olds.

Vlad knew the story; of course he did. It was well known that nobody could look at the kneeling statue, and it was also well-known that a statue fitting that description had been cursed into being by the last Vampire King. Vlad had never seen a description or illustration of the cursed vampire himself, or of the statue – nobody could get close enough to draw it, for obvious reasons, and the last person who tried had run clear out of the castle in broad daylight just to end the pain in his head – but he was pretty sure nobody had ever said anything to rule _out_ a curly-haired vampire with handsome features and a somehow regal bearing.

This left Vlad with a problem. Local legend claimed that the two statues were one and the same, and that the only person who could look upon it would be the old king, come again. He would lead the vampire race to greatness, and rule over them forevermore – which, Vlad knew, really meant that he would rule until someone power-hungry assassinated him... again. He wasn’t sure he believed all the stories, but the important thing was that there were vampires out there who did. If anyone ever found out that he had stared at the statue for half an hour, even from a distance – after all, Val and Cos had been behind him when they’d recoiled in pain – then he would be hailed as some kind of ‘Chosen One’ and all hope for a normal life would be out of the window. And then _he’d_ probably be assassinated.

No, this little trip had never happened, he decided. It was probably because he wasn’t a ‘proper vampire’, as his father always told him – that was why the statue hadn’t affected him like it did the others. There was nothing to worry about. He would just forget about the statue.

-

“Vlad Count, what are you doing?”

He ignored his Maths teacher, trying to run through a complicated sequence of Vampire protocols in his head as his father listened telepathically from upstairs. He snapped to attention as she grabbed his notebook. He hadn’t even realised he’d been doodling, until she held up the page for all to see.  
“I don’t think this is particularly appropriate for Maths class, is it?”

The picture was one Vlad instantly recognised; he’d drawn that figure often enough over the last nine years, always leaving out the face. He wasn’t a good enough artist to do the statue he’d seen in his childhood justice, and besides, he couldn’t risk it being discovered. As it was, the faceless figure could be _anyone_ , kneeling and dressed in ancient fashion.

Tom Petty sniggered.  
“Not sure that’s appropriate for _any_ class, Miss.” His cronies burst out laughing, amid various crude comments about Vlad’s sexuality, and he sighed, turning his mind back to his father’s examination. He’d barely mastered telepathy, let alone all this political stuff.

As it turned out, the vampire world had more than one way to root out a Chosen One, and it seemed Vlad was on a shortlist of candidates who _might be_ destined to be the next Grand High Vampire. It all seemed a bit woolly to Vlad, but his Dad had been thrilled, spending the last few years training him – or hiring tutors to train him – in all the things he’d need to know if he was successful.  
“And Vladdy,” he’d said, in that affectionately stern tone of voice that meant trouble, “you _will_ be successful.”

-

It was two weeks later that he sat bolt upright, almost knocking himself out on his coffin lid, with a name on his lips and a thousand confusing feelings and memories pulsing through his veins.  
“Bertrand!” He scrambled out of bed – just past midnight, he still had time, he could leave tonight – he had to get to Transylvania, right now.

“Happy birthday, Vladdy-” He cut his father off, only vaguely noting that yes, he was technically now eighteen.  
“Dad, Ingrid, I need to show you something but we’ve got to fly _now_.” They exchanged puzzled glances, but obediently transformed into bats and launched themselves into the sky.

When they landed outside the ruined castle, the two older vampires paused to glance wistfully back towards their old home before shuddering at the memories of the night they’d had to leave.  
“Why have you brought us back _here_? What if the mob are still around?” The Count glanced back to find that Vlad had already disappeared into the entrance of the castle, and they hurried to follow as he made his way straight to the crypt, as before.

Ingrid stopped in the corridor.  
“Very funny, Vlad. I know what’s in there, you’re not getting me near it.” The Count took one more step, doubled over in pain, and retreated to stand behind his daughter. Vlad didn’t falter, stepping straight into the dungeon and raising his hand, stretching it out towards the kneeling statue’s face.  
“Bertrand du Fortunesa,” he intoned quietly, “you’ve waited long enough.”

The statue’s blank stone gaze was suddenly replaced by a pair of piercing blue eyes as the kneeling figure suddenly became flesh, pitching forwards slightly before Vlad ran forward to hold him up. Stiffly, he rose to his feet, glancing around to get his bearings.  
“You remember?”  
Vlad nodded. “Last night. Thank you, Bertrand, for your service to me. I hope I did my part to your satisfaction.”  
Bertrand looked around him again. “Is this the same castle? I don’t know how you did it, but it seems you kept me safe all these years, so yes. I’m more than satisfied... your highness.”

_“It can’t be done. Not without an anchor, a vampire preferably, who would be prepared to wait, entombed in stone, for my return. It could be centuries, and only then could they be released.”_  
“I’ll do it. To keep you safe.”  
“Bertrand, it would be centuries. I can’t ask you to give up centuries of your... what?”  
His most trusted advisor looked torn for a moment. “They’re going to slay you, and when they do, there will be nothing for me, not for those centuries. You know that. Let me be your anchor, and then when all is done we can be together again.” 

_The king stared at him. “You’d really rather be a statue than go on without me? You realise, I would have to do it before my death.”_  
His advisor nodded uncomfortably. “I want to know you’re safe. Do it now. You can tell them I tried to seduce you or something, and in your anger-”  
“Why would I tell them that?”  
Bertrand shrugged. “Just do it.” 

_The king stepped forward and placed the lightest of kisses on Bertrand’s lips, but the latter pulled him back in for a long, lingering kiss. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust the rituals the king was going to invoke; it was just that he wasn’t going to leave his love with a half-hearted goodbye. Out of the corner of his eye he saw an eye in the crack of the door and sent a thought straight into the king’s head._  
‘Push me away, like you’re disgusted, and do it. We’re being watched.’  
‘I love you.’  
‘I love you too.’ 

_Then he felt himself being propelled away and the king raised a hand, pain evident in his eyes. His vision began to turn grey as he dropped helplessly to his knees, never looking away from the king._

_Bertrand spent many centuries waiting for the Chosen One. For whosoever woke the vampire of stone would be the king of all vampires._

Ingrid and the Count burst in on their moment of nostalgia, stumbling through the doorway.  
“It just suddenly stopped hurt- who’s that?”  
She didn’t get an answer for a few moments, until Vlad finally pulled himself away from his lover’s lips.  
“All these years, I missed you so much and I didn’t even know what I was missing. I don’t blame you for dreading centuries of that.” He gazed into those piercing eyes for a moment longer before remembering his family. “Oh, yeah, Dad, Ingrid, this is Bertrand du Fortunesa. And I’m the Vampire King. Grandmother will be thrilled.”

Ignoring his father’s spluttering and his sister’s snort of disbelief, he turned back to Bertrand and they picked up right where they’d left off.


End file.
